Chrysalis
by Goblin Cat KC
Summary: Afflicted with secondary mutations, the turtles must form an uneasy alliance with Bishop, one which leads to surprising benefits. SLASH and CEST. Bishop:Raph:Don:Mike:Leo


**Chrysalis**

by KC and Crabapplered

**Summary**: Dramatic stuff happens.

**Pairings**: Bishop/Raph/Don/Mike/Leo

**Rating**: NC-17

Other Info: Crabapplered's artwork can be found on her livejournal, and is worth going to take a look at: h t t p : / / c r a b a p p l e r e d . l i v e j o u r n a l . c o m / 1 0 0 2 2 2 . h t m l

It wasn't fair. Splinter always grounded them before he went anywhere. He could've been gallivanting across the galaxy, entered in an alien martial arts tournament they'd never heard of, and his four sons were stuck in the lair, forbidden from leaving upon pain of death. Well, probably not death. Michelangelo didn't think Splinter would ever be annoyed enough to kill them. But the threat of no tv, no sweets and extra practice for a month was worse than death. He didn't know what Splinter had threatened his brothers with. Probably no beer for Raphael and no coffee for Donatello. Splinter's threats had to be painstakingly individualized, or else Leonardo would feel like he was being rewarded instead.

He wished he was with Splinter on a galactic adventure. Chewing on a bit of ice, Michelangelo looked down into his glass, angling his twisty straw for the last drops of lemonade. This was his third glass and he still felt thirsty. Or rather he felt hot inside, burning up as if he was under the sun on an August day. He'd already taken a cold shower. Maybe when Leonardo was done, he'd take another.

No one else seemed to think that the lair was warm. He heard Raphael behind him beating their punching bag, working up a sweat as he practiced. Michelangelo craned his neck and glanced over his shoulder at him. Raphael grabbed the bag, holding it still as he caught his breath, and paused. He looked directly at Michelangelo before he resumed kicking it.

Used to his brother's moods, Michelangelo went back to watching tv, speeding through the channels. He fidgeted on the couch, feeling like his skin would creep out of his shell. A fan, he needed a fan. Donatello would know where one was. Or he could make one if they didn't have one somewhere.

Then again, he didn't feel right bugging Donatello. His favorite geek sat at the dining room table with his head pillowed on one outflung arm, his bandanna carelessly tossed beside him. His eyes were closed tight and he breathed very deliberately. If Michelangelo looked close, he could make out dark rings under Donatello's eyes.

"Donnie, you feeling okay?" he asked.

"Just a headache," Donatello mumbled, yawning as he repositioned slightly. "I took ibuprofen last night but I didn't get much sleep."

"I thought I heard you tossing and turning," Michelangelo said. He didn't mention that he'd been too hot to sleep, which had made a great excuse for reading the Silver Sentry's solo series, with a special cameo appearance by the rest of the Justice Force. Not that he'd needed the excuse. Splinter never came upstairs to ask why his light was on so late into the night.

"I'll be okay," Donatello said. "Just need to rest."

"Well, I'm about to get another lemonade," Michelangelo said. "Want some tea while I'm up?"

"Mm? Sure, if you don't mind." Donatello opened his eyes, then winced and closed them again. "Maybe I'm developing migraines. Everything's blurry."

"No problem," Michelangelo said, getting up and heading into the kitchen. "Michelangelo's Famous Mint Herbal Tea For Mutant Turtle Migraines coming right up!"

If the lair was hot, the kitchen was sweltering. Had to be the gas stove and its pilot lights. His mood deflated slightly but he forced himself to stay cheerful. The underground got hot sometimes, that was all. No reason to get moody.

As he filled the kettle and took out their tea box, he flipped the radio on for background noise. He was on the other side of the kitchen digging out the lemonade from the refrigerator when he realized that someone had changed the radio channel to NPR. He made a face but kept digging, loathe to leave the cool refrigerator. He had to push Raphael's beer and Mountain Dew aside, shoving Leonardo's disgusting bottled green tea to the back. Not that Michelangelo didn't like green tea, but only very weak with lots of lemon and sugar and ginger cookies so that he didn't taste the lawn clippings.

"--continuing coverage of what environmental watchdogs are calling an ecological disaster in the making. The EPA continues to stonewall calls for increased oversight on its alleged mismanagement of what is being described as 'the East River explosion'."

"Mike," Donatello groaned, "if you're gonna listen the radio, at least turn off the tv."

"Sorry, bro'!" Michelangelo leaned out of the kitchen and tossed a wooden spoon like a throwing star at the tv, hitting the power button. He ignored Donatello's annoyed sigh and went back to making tea.

Amusement colored the radio lady's voice as she continued. "Rumors of glowing alien ships and monsters coming out of the ocean obscure more rational witness accounts of unidentified scuba divers in the area just before the explosion and the navy and army blocking off that part of the river."

"Hey, Don," Michelangelo said, "think maybe that was a triceraton ship that blew up?"

"Huh?"

"On the radio."

"A ship blew up our radio?" Donatello's reply was slurred and sleepy.

"Uh, never mind," Michelangelo said. "Just some weird dudes on the radio, that's all. Hey, listen, do you know if we got any fans lying around here? I thought the one in my room worked but it's busted. I think Raph stuck a sai in it."

"Bottom cabinet, right hand shelf, behind the blender. Has a cracked casing. Three prong plug."

Michelangelo blinked at how specific that was. He got on his knees and pulled out a bunch of empty bottles before finding a dusty blender and an even dustier black fan. It looked like something they'd brought over from their first home, which was weird. They didn't have many things left from then.

"Whoa, awesome memory," he said, brushing off the dust. When it passed for clean, he plugged it in and sighed as the air blew over him. In the background, the radio continued to chatter.

"--no official word on why the area has been evacuated. Military vehicles continue to arrive like something out of a conspiracy movie. Local residents don't know when they'll be able to return to their homes *zzt* or even when *zzt* the evacuation *zzt* ends. Concerns about the water contamin*zzt*--"

The broadcast ended in static. Michelangelo bopped the radio a few times, then figured the old appliance had finally died. Oh well, the fan was decent background noise, too.

While the kettle finally whistled, the bathroom door also opened. Waves of steam billowed after Leonardo, who shivered as he stepped out. Michelangelo frowned but didn't say anything. He didn't care if Leonardo used up all the hot water since it was the cold he needed.

What worried him was how jumpy his big brother seemed. Leonardo's paranoia was a joke in the family, but usually he wasn't looking over his shoulder here at home. He crossed the lair as if expecting an attack at every step, still glancing in all directions as he sat down. Michelangelo watched him from the kitchen, then added a second teacup on the counter. A bag of mint tea in one, green tea in the other, and he stopped the kettle as it barely started to whistle.

"You okay, Leo?" Michelangelo called. "You're a little jumpy."

"I'm fine," Leonardo said, not very convincingly. "Just--tired, I guess."

"Mm, maybe it's a bug going around the lair," Michelangelo said, pouring and adding lemon to Leonardo's tea, sugar to Donatello's. "Don has it, too."

Leonardo glanced at Donatello, then noticed the afghan on the couch's arm and grabbed it, wrapping it around himself. He stared at the shadows behind the televisions, then at the corner of the ceiling where the cobwebs gathered, glancing each time as if startled.

"Will you just relax?" Raphael snapped from the dojo. "I swear, you're making me nervous with all that twitching around."

Raphael didn't expect an answer and didn't get one. Leonardo curled up a little tighter and closed his eyes, not looking anywhere.

Setting out the mint tea first, Michelangelo bent over Donatello and gently touched his face. His brother blinked slowly, sighing as he sat up. He stared at the cup for a moment before he realized it was tea and put his hand around it, holding it before he drank.

"Thanks, Mike," he said softly, his eyes half-closed as he sipped. "Ah, that's good."

Carrying the other cup, Michelangelo sat down next to Leonardo and set both the lemonade and tea on the coffee table. He had to be careful the table didn't wobble too much. Donatello refused to sand the legs even, not when he had Utrom and Triceraton technology to play with.

"You don't look fine," Michelangelo whispered, putting his arm over Leonardo's shoulders. The afghan was soft despite how often it had been patched. "You look exhausted."

"I'll be all right," Leonardo insisted.

As he leaned forward for the tea, he brushed Michelangelo's hand. The touch startled both of them and they looked at each with wide eyes.

"Leo, you're freezing!"

"You're so warm..."

Michelangelo knew he should insist Leonardo bundle himself under a mountain of covers with chicken soup and some kind of medicine for whatever he was sick from. There was no way his brother's icy skin was healthy. But he was so cool to the touch that Michelangelo pushed the afghan away and held him close. He expected his brother to warm up quickly, but Leonardo stayed at just the right temperature to soothe the heat inside.

From Leonardo's look, he felt the same. Leonardo pressed his face against Michelangelo's throat and nudged him backward on the couch, using him as a huge pillow. The tension bled out of him and both lay drowsing, Michelangelo content to lay back as Leonardo readjusted for a better fit.

Moments later, Michelangelo found Raphael standing over them, watching with a strange expression. It wasn't the irritation or anger Michelangelo expected. Raphael looked confused and worried. He understood why when Raphael touched his forehead.

"Man, you really are burning up." When he touched Leonardo, he winced and grabbed the afghan. "Definitely sick."

As Raphael covered them both, Michelangelo opened his mouth to argue. He was already hot. He didn't need a blanket. But he found that with Leonardo on top of him, it didn't matter. His older brother didn't even notice the heavy afghan dropped on them or when Raphael gently slid off his blue mask.

"Thanks," Michelangelo said. "You better? Bad mood went away?"

Raphael shrugged. "I guess. The nervous feeling just disappeared. Feel a lot more relaxed now. Don?"

Michelangelo craned his neck to see, but Donatello was just out of his range. It didn't matter. He heard Rapahel taking away the empty teacup and washing it out, then grabbing a soda from the fridge with a mutter about someone rearranging his stuff. When he came back, he made Donatello get up and shuffle to the recliner, taking off his knee pads and wrist pads to make him more comfortable. The pads joined the mess on the floor.

"Guess we all had a rough night," Raphael said softly, sitting against the couch by Donatello's legs.

"Nothing a little sleep shouldn't fix," Michelangelo said as his eyes began to close. "You gonna stay up?"

"Yeah, why not? Splinter should be home in a coupl'a hours." Raphael shrugged and drank half the soda in one go. "I don't wanna go to sleep with you three like this. I'd feel better keeping watch."

Michelangelo grinned. "Raph's being responsible," he sing-songed as if it was a bad thing. "Raph's being responsible."

"Tch," Raphael snorted. "Get to sleep before I knock you out."

"Sure, sure," Michelangelo mumbled. "Threaten the sick turtle. I'ma tell Splinter when he comes home..."

As his voice drifted off to sleep, Raphael smiled in fond exasperation. It was easier to smile when he felt calmer. The anxiety and irritation had melted away within a few seconds of each other, followed quickly by his headache disappearing. He was left with a soft hum in the back of his head like a fan turned on for white noise, droning in the distance.

He was right. They'd all had a rough night. He knew because he'd lain awake listening to them tossing and turning, watched Michelangelo's lights turn on and off as he alternated between giving up on sleep and trying again. He'd heard Leonardo pace a few times, lay down and then get up to search his room. He'd seen Donatello leave his room and head downstairs, heard him fiddling with the medicine cabinet for pain pills, and then watched him stumble back with his hand on his head. The whole night Raphael hadn't been able to sleep for all the noise around him.

But now the lair was blissfully silent. Thinking he'd just close his eyes for a second, he relaxed against the chair, his cheek against Donatello's knee, and fell fast asleep. None of them moved as they slept, desperately needing the deep rest.

And because they were all asleep, none of them noticed when the lights flickered and went out, when the hum of the appliances faded. The fan in the kitchen, plugged into one of the outlets Donatello had juryrigged directly into the city's power grid, slowly came to a stop as the electricity died.

TBC...


End file.
